


What now?

by TheLibrarian (es101wx)



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-01-26 09:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12554260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/es101wx/pseuds/TheLibrarian
Summary: SA Christiane Pain and Ducky have a past, and an intense one. But she left. And now she's back. What now?





	1. Chapter 1

The elevator's doors open and SA Pain starts to move towards Autopsy. She's perfectly aware it won't be easy - after all, she deserves it.

And all of a sudden, he's in front of her: doors slide open, she enters, he turns around and sees her... And his expression changes. Not for good, it goes without saying.

"You're here"

"I am, yes," she tries.

"Are you back?"

"I don't know, I... I suppose it depends on..."

"Why are you here, Christiane?" She feels the breath leave her chest, heavy. It was never supposed to be easy, wasn't it? 

"They told me about your heart attack, and..."

"That was  _months_ ago," he replies coldly.

"I didn't know, Ducky. Tony told me just two days ago... I don't think it was his intention, though."

"I expressly asked them  _no to tell you_. I'd hope it wasn't his intention." 

"I'm... I'm  _sorry_."

"Oh, well, that changes everything!" The sarcasm in his voice is suddenly unbearable, sharp as a razor. Christiane flinches. 

"Ok, I know. It doesn't change a thing. But  _I am_ sorry. Leaving was not the solution."

Doctor Mallard turns again, regaining his occupation; a metallic, clinking noise accompanies his movements. "But it's what you do, isn't it? You can't face pain - and it's quite ironic, I'd say - and what you do is run. It's how you came here in the first place, isn't it? Boston had let you down, so you came to Washington. Washington lets you down, and what do you do? You leave for France. It's quite logical, to be honest." 

"It's more complicated than that..."

"No, it isn't. But it's not your fault, Christiane, there's no need for apologies - you are who you are, it's me who shouldn't have thought you could really..."

"Don't," she blurted, her tone harsh. "Don't even  _try_ to question my feelings for you. Don't even  _try_."

"Oh,  _sorry_ ," he replied curtly, turning again to face her. He moves a few steps towards her. "Sorry if I  _dare_ and question the authenticity of your supposed  _feelings_ for me after you'd left me overnight and flew to Paris.  _Forgive me_ if I question your feelings when you'd called me  _one fucking time_ in almost two years. It's clearly  _so childish_ of me."

"I was trying to... To get back to my feet. I was a mess and..."

"And I would have given  _anything_ to help you, Christiane. Anything. But no, you had to run. You had to do things your way."

"I told you, I'm sorry. I mean it. I'm sorry. I have regretted that decision every single day..." Her eyes are full of tears, now, and despite his annoyance, he feels sorry, too, now. 

Neither of them knows precisely how it happens - but the moment he reaches for her, handing her his always perfect handkerchief, what they actually do is crash against each other: Christine's back pushes hard against the cold surface of the autopsy table and she doesn't almost notice, being so engaged in the kiss. 

It's not a sweet kiss. It's rough and urgent and full of rage. 

And as soon as it's begun, it's finished. 

"Perhaps we should go home and speak as civil people do," he suggests, adjusting his bowtie. "It's not an indecent proposal, believe me. We  _really_ should talk, first."

Christiane nods. Talking is what they do, now. There can't be anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

_Talking? Really?_ she finds herself thinking as soon as they enter. This isn't a house, this is  _home_ , and she is fully aware of it: it is home despite the fact she's been overseas for almost two years. Their life together is what she holds dearest in her life and she sees it clearly, now, she sees it as soon as she hangs her coat and memories of their traditional "welcome-home-quickie" assault her mind. Now  _that_ was a good habit, wasn't it. 

The house hasn't changed much but she doesn't really notice - it's quite clear Ducky's moving along the same trail of thoughts for there is a moment, a  _perfectly still moment_ during which they simply stare at each other, and a moment later she's pushed against the wall, panting excitedly in his mouth as they devour each other's lips.  _So much for talk, eh?_

Climbing the stairs reveals trickier than in the past, but it's just a little lack of exercise and by the sixth step they have regained their full confidence: nipping and grasping hungrily they finally reach their old bedroom's door, against which she finds herself pressed, again, Ducky's hands eager all over her now partially divested skin. Her fingers untie his bowtie and unbutton his shirt, promptly pulled out from his trousers - when on earth did she manage to remove his suspenders? She can't recall - as he unzips her skirt and pushes it down to pool at her feet. 

"This doesn't mean I'm not angry with you," he growls against her cleavage.

"I know."

"It just means I'm going to find difficult to keep things calm," he warns her, frantically tossing away her top.

"Define  _calm_ ," she pants, unbuckling his belt and reaching for his zip.

"Let's say,  _vanilla-ish_..." There's a hint of amusement in his voice, now. She smiles towards the ceiling, arching her back towards him in approval. Two years of self-imposed distance are a huge amount of days, for a couple used to be together on a daily basis. She pushes down his trousers and gives his hardening manhood a playful squeeze through his boxers. 

"Let's say... _something like this_?" she crosses the room towards the bed and bends over it until her hands are firmly on the mattress and feels, more than hearing, his movements in her direction: a moment later he's behind her, tugging at her knickers and letting them slid down her legs.

"Something like this, mh," he chuckles in approval, and she turns her head to look at him; he's got his cock in his right hand, pumping it to readiness, and puts his other hand on her exposed flesh, fingers suddenly massaging and probing at her opening. "And you're so wet...for me?" he asks, as he asked almost every time during their relationship. He never ceased to be amazed by how much a woman in her thirties could find him arousing - after a two years hiatus, that is even truer. 

"No one else here," she points out, "What about stop talking?" 

And as if not a day has passed, he indulges a moment or two rubbing his manhood along her opening, then guided himself into her. 


	3. Chapter 3

Buried deep inside her, Ducky felt the familiar but almost forgotten feeling of being home. Two years apart - two years made of silence and distance, of anger and regret - and still, there they were, again. Despite the anger, despite  _everything_ , he recognized under his fingers the sensation of the soft flesh of her hips as he grasped at her to keep her near. 

There was anger, though, in his grip and his movements - perhaps for the first time in his entire life, Donald Mallard was focused on the more basic idea of all: his own pleasure. So he thrust hard,  _angrily_ , literally slapping his balls against her flesh: and his fingers dipped achingly in her hips, leaving marks which surely in the morning would have been bruises... Still, Christine wasn't complaining. She wasn't complaining at all. 

She was matching every stroke with equal strength, meeting him halfway every time and not even trying to muffle her pleasure: and when her arms gave in, and she found herself prone on Donald's bed, she let him straddle her and pound inside her like that, desperately, furiously. She understood his need, she  _knew_ what was everything about - she knew he had to mark her as his own, once again, once and for all, for he had ever been a gentleman, but first of all he remained  _a man_... A man whose woman had had another man during their separation. 

"Did _he?_ Christiane?" he asked panting. "Did he  _fuck you_ like this? Did he  _make you scream_ like this?" 

"No," she exhaled, reaching for her clit and starting to stimulate it in rhythm with Ducky's thrusts. "N- _GOOD GRIEF, DONALD, FUCK FUCK FUCK!_ " 

Her orgasm had taken her almost by surprise as soon as he had come, filling her with his seed. She didn't care about it, she couldn't have cared, not after two years apart... 

"I'm sorry", she heard him say when he rolled beside her, regaining his breath.

"What for? It was  _great_ , it was..."

"I was a moron, Christiane. Talking to you like that, it was...it was..."

"...predictable. Understandable."

"Disrespectful. I'm sorry. And... I'm glad you could have climaxed, I... I was not thinking of your needs, and I'm so, so sorry, and..."

"Shut up," she stopped him, propping up on one elbow to look at him. "You needed this. We both needed it, and it was a great performance of angry sex, and frankly - I missed you  _so much_ I could have had an orgasm even if you'd have decided to fuck me with a stick, ok?  _I missed you_ , Donald. I missed you  _so terribly much_."


End file.
